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Hildegarde Clause, nee Eriksdoiter, a sweet Viking Lass swept off her feet by a young gentlemen, Nicholas of Crete - with a small, but endearing, habit of of filing children's' shoes with treats on at winter solstice.
Hildegarde Clause, nee Eriksdoiter, a sweet Viking Lass swept off her feet by a young gentlemen, Nicholas of Crete - with a small, but endearing, habit of of filing children's' shoes with treats on at winter solstice.
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Fast forward a few hundred years and now poor Hildegarde is Mrs. Claus - a mere appendage to her more famous husband.
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Spare a thought now - as Santa is sleeping off a powerful sugar high (cookies, cookies and bratwurst - Santa's full) snoring in the bedroom through February. Those damn elves are all on vacation, leaving the workshop a freaking mess. And who do you think is going to clean up the stalls. Reindeer to be fed, sled to be polished and a backlog of Christmas letters from France (mail was on strike).
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Poor Hildegarde didn't sign up for this! She expected to be in Crete! Sunny happy Crete. Maybe helping with the occasional shoe filling.
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But no, Nick had to move up the corporate ladder until he was here, in the Headquarters. Did anyone ask Hildy if she wanted to live at the North Pole!
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The North Pole! No one lives at the North Pole! You know who is in her book-club? A weird little dentist (with an thing for elves that is never discussed), a white guy who drips on the pages and Boris - the ex-Russian spy who took a wrong turn escaping the gulag.
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Yet here Hildy is - prisoner of love.